


shot three times

by Quillium



Series: spideytorch week 2k19 [2]
Category: Fantastic Four, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Spideytorch Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 08:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: “I’ll be completely honest,” Peter says as the ambulance dude—what are they called?—the paramedic checks his chest, “Three bullet wounds on a Monday? Not the best way to start the week off.”





	shot three times

**Author's Note:**

> Go drink some water first, y'all. And get sleep if it's past your bedtime. Don't say "later" because you won't do it later. You know what you can do later? Read this. Mm-hm. Go take care of your bodies.

“I’ll be completely honest,” Peter says as the ambulance dude—what are they called?—the paramedic checks his chest, “Three bullet wounds on a Monday? Not the best way to start the week off.”

“Oh my god,” Johnny whispers, pacing, “Oh my _god_. Oh my _god, Spidey_. You got shot _three times_.”

“ _No_ , really?” Peter rolls his eyes, which is totally wasted because of his dumb mask, “I couldn’t tell.”

“Oh my _god_. Fuck, does it—does it hurt?”

“Yes, Johnny. Bullet wounds, shockingly, hurt.”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Do you need a shock blanket?” Peter turns to the paramedic, “I think my boyfriend needs a paramedic.”

“No I—no, I don’t. No. Nope. I’m fine. So fine. Fantastic, wonderful—thanks. Wow. Okay. Um. This blanket is actually nice.”

“Yes, Johnny. It’s a shock blanket.”

“Why is it so heavy?”

“It grounds you.”

“Right. Uh,” Johnny sucks in a shaky breath, “Lotta blood. Very red—red suit. Does a good job of covering up the blood. A+ job.”

“Thanks, Johnny.”

“Yeah. Christ, I sound dumb. Why are you letting me talk?”

“I think it’s cute.”

“You think you can get away with your snark just by being cute and flirting with me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right,” Johnny grumbles a bit, “Oi, you’re going with the ambulance, right?”

“I just need the bullets out,” Peter answers lightly, “Then I’ll heal fine on my own.”

“ _Oh my god_. You can’t—you can’t do that, Spidey.”

“Why not?”

“You need medical help.”

“It’ll be fully healed before the end of the week,” Peter promises, knowing full well that’s not quite what Johnny’s worried about.

“Don’t be an idiot. Go to the hospital.”

“My identity—“

“Can be dealt with by me buying you an, I dunno, ski mask. The ones bank robbers use.”

“I always wonder how they aren’t burning with all those clothes on. They’re covered, head to toe.”

“I know, right? Like, a bulky black sweatshirt in the middle of summer? That’s asking for heatstroke.”

“I know, right?”

“Wait. We’re getting off topic.”

Peter winces, “No, no, we’re not.”

“We are! You’re deflecting. Idiot. Go to the hospital. I’ll come with a ski mask.”

“But—“

“No ands, ifs, or buts,” Johnny leans over to kiss Peter’s cheek, “Good paramedic, please make sure Spidey doesn’t act like a total idiot.”

The paramedic nods wearily.

Peter throws his hands up in the air, “John _ny_.”

“What? Sorry, can’t hear you! Going to buy a ski mask! Love you, bye!”

__

Johnny’s suit blends in with the room, sharp blue against pastel green. Peter keeps his eyes on Johnny, though, through the holes in the ski mask, while the doctor sews him up.

Peter only agreed to be sewn up on the condition that Johnny watched. He hasn’t had any evil doctors attack him yet, but he figures it’s only a matter of time.

“You’re doing great,” the doctor says, “If you need a break anytime, just say so.”

Peter gives a short, tight nod, because he doesn’t think he can speak without screaming.

 _Three bullets_ , Johnny mouths at him from across the room.

He’s still angry.

 _Not my fault_ , Peter mouths back, pouting.

 _Idiot_ , Johnny shakes his head.

The doctor makes another stitch and Peter wonders why this feels worse than getting shot.

Everything hurts.

He hates this.

Johnny is still glaring at him. Like Peter got shot on purpose.

Ugh.

“Let’s take a break before we do the third,” Johnny suggests.

Peter is stupidly grateful, even as he says, “It’s fine.”

“You’ve been looking constipated for the past two minutes. I think we can afford a ten second break from me needing to look at that dumb face.”

“I don’t look constipated.”

“You can’t see yourself, honeybun.”

“I—doc?”

“I am a professional,” the doctor says with all the exasperation of someone who wishes she weren’t, “I am not getting involved.”

“ _Doc_.”

“Not involved. Tell me when you want stitches.”

Peter throws his hands in the air, “I am in pain and I will be in pain. Better get the pain done and over with.”

“You want me to hold your hand?” Johnny offers.

“I hate you.”

“Is that a no?”

“Come here,” Peter grumbles.

Johnny grins, sharp and wide, and slides into the spot next to Peter with ease, “Hold my hand?”

“You want it crushed?”

“You’re right, bad idea. Alternate idea: I hold _your_ hand.”

“You’re so dumb,” Peter laughs. _Ow_.

“Alright, doc,” Johnny grins, “You can start stitching him again.”

“Fu— _ow ow ow_.”

__

“I don’t need a wheelchair,” Peter grumbles.

“You didn’t need to get shot either. And yet here we are.”

“I didn’t want to get shot.”

“You seemed fine to leave your wounds alone and avoid the hospital.”

“Those are two completely different things, Johnny.”

“Are they? Both seem to be on the same side of idiocy.”

“Okay, so I’m an idiot. But I don’t need a wheelchair.”

“You admit you’re an idiot.”

“Yes.”

“And so you admit your logic is flawed.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Stay in the wheelchair, Pete,” Johnny wheels Peter into their apartment’s elevator, “Just for now. You can walk in through the door like a normal person and collapse on the couch. Don’t bleed on it too much.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

“Good.”

“But, you know, I can’t control my bleeding—“

“You can minimize the risk, can’t you, Peter.”

“Well—“

“ _Can’t you, Peter_?”

Peter scowls and pinches Johnny’s cheek, “When did you become such a mother hen?”

“When you got shot three times on a Monday morning,” Johnny scrubs a hand over his cheek, “I’m tired just thinking about it. We are going to sit on the couch.”

“Yes.”

“And rest.”

“Sure.”

“And watch Stranger Things.”

“I’m down for this.”

Johnny sighs as they reach their home. He opens the door and Peter does a wobble-type thing as he stands and scurries to the couch, “Don’t get shot again, okay?”

“I can’t exactly control—“

“Don’t get shot again.”

Peter sighs and rests his head on Johnny’s shoulder, “I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Johnny grumbles, “You do that.”

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing romance continues to be a giant question mark. I'll get it by the... seventh day. At worst.


End file.
